Why I Stopped Climbing with My Significant Other

The morning I stopped climbing with my significant other began on the Zion shuttle at 7 a.m. The crisp morning air chilled my skin, and my stomach churned as we rode to the base of Moonlight Buttress (5.12c). My partner had proposed that I try it since it matched my “sporty” style. Part of me worried that a 1,200-foot 5.12 finger crack would be beyond my skill level, but after being together for a few years, I didn’t challenge his suggestion. I trusted him, the better trad climber, to know what I could handle.

We lugged our heavy bags to the river crossing. The river raged, waist-deep. Pants off, packs on, was the only way to cross. Buddying up, we leaned on each other to stay upright against the brutal current. By the time we reached the opposite bank, the cold water had frozen our skin.

At the base, we could see other parties already on the route and some behind us lining up. Tension built between us under the pressure to rush. My partner launched up the 5.8 first pitch, assigning me pitches two and four, the 5.10+ and 5.10-. When it came my turn, I clambered up the 5.10+, terrified. I immediately found myself on a sandy layback crack with little gear: a sport climber-turn-trad-climber’s nightmare. Next, on the 5.10-, when I reached a short, committing crux over a ledge, I froze. For what felt like hours, I writhed with nerves as I summoned the courage to complete the move. I called down to my partner, pleading for advice and reassurance, not wanting to take the whip. My partner kept his head down, worn out from belaying.

As I stood on that ledge in Zion, struggling to keep tears back, I didn’t feel like myself. This wasn’t how I normally climbed. With other climbing partners, I moved with confidence. I didn’t accept their suggestions without contributing. And I protected my own experience instead of disappearing into supporting theirs.

After gathering my strength with a few attempts, I finally completed the crux. However, the mental tax of first tackling the river and then grappling with my fear left me depleted.

Next, I would lead pitch five: the first 5.12b pitch starting off the Rocker Block. Jittery and tense, I started up the pitch and hit a short run out on what my partner called an “easy layback.” Desperate for security, I placed some gear. Then, reaching the pinnacle of the day’s mental strength, I asked to be lowered. Suddenly, my two pieces popped, and I hurled through the air, falling for more than 100 feet and past the belay. I landed with a bang as my arm slammed into the wall.

The Belaytionship Paradox

Since I started climbing, having a significant other who climbed was not just the holy grail of relationships; it was a deal-breaker to not be a climber. Having a climbing relationship meant no more desperately seeking belayers for gym and crag sessions. Planning vacations came easily. I never had to explain why all I wanted to do was climb.

That day on Moonlight shifted my perspective. I looked back on other situations like this one and saw that I often deflected decisions to my partner and avoided empowering myself towards my own goals. Climbing, a place where I usually excelled, became tainted by the context of a relationship.

One thing I’ve noticed, in both myself and athletes I’ve coached, is that climbing with a significant other can increase our emotional reactivity. We’re more likely to express our emotions with a trusted, intimate companion than with a stranger or acquaintance—and when the climbing gets hard, we’re more likely to crumble into anger, frustration, or fear. This doesn’t make us inherently weaker or stronger. We do this because we know our S.O. will not leave the belaytionship just because we express a weakness. Our friends? We can’t be so sure.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with having emotions, but I climb better when I default to strength, not tears. With a friend, I’m more likely to attempt to impress or validate my abilities. After reflecting on how climbing with my then-boyfriend limited my ability to show up as an equal decision-maker, I now prefer “muggle” dates instead of climbing ones—not because I don’t care for my partner, but because I want to perform my best. Attempting a hard project requires heightened focus; even small distractions can lead to a fall. Our environment—including our partner—contributes to or drains our limited bandwidth. It’s a protection, not a weakness, to strategize accordingly.

I have climbed some of my most challenging routes with platonic partners, such as Soavadia (7c+/5.13a) in Tsaranoro Valley, Madagascar, with my friend Harried Ridley. On the first day of our multiple-day ascent, as the sun peeked over the horizon at 4 a.m., I moaned that I was tired and had barely slept while we switched belays. She snarled, “Then do you want to turn around?” My determination snapped into place. Harriet wasn’t going to soothe my fretting. I had to carry my own motivation. “No, of course not,” I fired back. The conversation ended. I told her I would lead the crux pitch. She told me she would take the trady final pitch. We held each other up. There was no give and take with dominance; we assumed roles as equals. And there was no more grumbling from then on out.

Sometimes being the most loving and supportive boyfriend or girlfriend can look like allowing your significant other to climb with whom they feel most empowered with, even if it’s not you. While having that holy grail climbing-love relationship can be incredible, it’s okay, even emboldening, to climb without your significant other, too. After all, climbing will always be my first love; partners come and go.

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